


Clover

by NighttimePhilosopher



Series: DnD character drabbles [3]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen, Mellow is mine, Nonbinary Character, They/Them pronouns for Mellow, everyone else belongs to my group, my lost catto, tabaxi character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 07:32:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18988123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NighttimePhilosopher/pseuds/NighttimePhilosopher





	Clover

Mellow finds themselves lost at the campfire, finding the dirty webbing of their fingers in need of a desperate clean. Wedging arrows and crossbow bolts into the thick hides of gnolls tended to do get them grubby like that. 

They try to ignore that their earliest memories don’t include the towering jungles or sprawling clans that appear in the recounts of the other tabaxi. There isn’t the sour taste of gebur berries, or the dancing scent of petrichor among foliage they can recall when asked. There aren’t any stories they can tell about falling from trees, or catching their first sparrow. They’re not even sure if their mother’s fur matched theirs. They can’t remember being held by her, or if that was even something common within tabaxi culture.

They _can_ remember the day they first saw their marking, though. It was reflected back at them in a splintered mirror, peeking out from lighter strands of fur, four dark curves meeting in the middle to form a clover shape. Subsequent checks in different seasons, where their weak pelt waxed and waned, confirmed that it stayed no matter what. They began to stroke it frequently knowing it was there, sore finger pads brushing over the thicker cluster when things got stressful, when longing for the unfamiliar arched up a little too much. They can feel its presence when they slip into their studded armor, rougher fur forced up against their back. It’s the start to the day they prefer.

Vuis and Song don’t seem to have markings (Mellow had checked many times). Vuis stood among the tallest of the party alongside the half-orc Dukal, built of focused muscle and crowned in a massive mane of red. It was brilliant, puffing up during any hint of an encounter, but it was not a marking. He only recalls proudly travelling away from his home and family to experience firsthand clashes of grandiose and glory, the fire failing to recreate his mighty poses in shadow.

Song was similarly built, a tiny spellcaster’s form lacking Mellow’s roguish leanness. Although, her shoulders were spattered in strange, abrasive scales that Mellow wasn’t sure belonged to her. They were too hard to be fur markings, they can at least recognize that as the other sandy tabaxi tightens the strings of her lute with practiced hands. They glanced down to their own hands, claws flexing in and out from their sheaths in boredom.

The dwarf, Volkaarn, had a habit of asking many jovial questions when they rested as a group. It wasn’t at all malicious, if a little bit a gateway for later prodding (of which Dukal was often the victim). It wasn’t that Mellow was threatened by it, just that they didn’t know how to answer the questions about home. Because home wasn’t the slavers, the tastes of luxury just out of reach. It wasn’t the years spent sleeping on rooftops, taking what was necessary. They weren’t sure if it was this adventuring life, which kept them alive better than anything else had. But they knew it was a place they didn’t understand, and a people they couldn’t comprehend, even when they were linked by blood.

And sitting sprawled by the fireplace left them a little lost, with perplexed sets of eyes following the hand they reached to their back.


End file.
